


in nomine patris

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [18]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Jared Padalecki, First Time, Grooming, Lolita Jared, M/M, Religious Content, Top Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Unsafe Sex, pre-discussed consent, priest jeff, supposedly possessed jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24802780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: jdm/jared + priest!jdm and supposedly possessed boy jared
Relationships: Jeffrey Dean Morgan/Jared Padalecki
Series: ficlet prompts [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478657
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	in nomine patris

**Author's Note:**

> Things are kept very open regarding the possession part. This is one of those things that could easily turn into 10k with a major character death warning but I staved myself off ((((:

Morgan’s seen many-a wrong things in his life. Has prayed over them, and sometimes even got an answer. Most times, he didn’t.

With some people, you just feel it when you look at them:

Something is wrong.

“Now, let us bow our heads and pray.”

One head doesn’t duck. So easy to spot in the devout Sunday crowd; and one lone bead of sweat makes its way down the back of Morgan’s neck.

The boy looks straight at him—bland expression, shaggy hair. Maybe fifteen, sixteen.

Morgan’s arms are stretched out, palms facing heavenwards.

The boy doesn’t look away. Neither does Morgan.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

~

Padalecki. Pa-da-lecki.

Middle child, bright-minded. Gifted, maybe. Quiet—not shy.

Opens up once you prod, but not immediately. Has been pestered too often by too-nosy, too-uncaring adults.

Father Morgan cares.

~

Jared. Ja-red.

Beauty marks and sunflower eyes. Spider-fingers and secret words.

Such as, “Do it in my mouth,” or, “I want it.”

Butterfly-lashes, dancing.

~

Overdue celibacy in that too-tight grip; teenage-spit easing the way.

Morgan’s always been so weak himself.

“You gonna do it in my ass this time?” and Morgan nearly goes blind.

Shivers, hands wrung around those hips, tips of middle fingers almost-touching. Jared works him wet like he has any right; Morgan’s foot shuffles against one of many boxes with book donations, stuffed animals, board games.

It’s almost time for lunch. Birds and sunshine filter in from the garden, the tainted window to their left.

Morgan inquires, “You want that?” and Jared, the devil, licks Y-E-S into his mouth.

They’ve been working up to this over the past few weeks. Morgan’s supposed to be somewhere in five. But he can’t. Not when he can be here instead.

Jared helps lifting his own legs, makes a mess of his shirt as he attempts to distribute more spit. Morgan produces another of the small packages of cheap-but-good-enough lube he’s been carrying around for days now. They’re running out, fast.

Those eyes flutter beautifully upon Morgan breaching him with a finger; two. It’s easy at this point, butter-soft like temptation itself.

Jared tells him, “I need it,” whiny like a younger child as he grips the collar of Morgan’s habit and yanks like a threat. “Hurry up. Need your _cock_ , please.”

Morgan stifles that mouth with his own, the girth of his tongue.

It’s too easy with those arms slung around his neck; to lift the boy and line them up and work himself inside—it’s done so fast, irrevocably, and Morgan trembles.

Mouths, “Jared,” who produces the first fragments of the most whorish moan before Morgan can clamp his hand over that mouth, can muffle the evidence of their (his) sin and grinds them skin-to-skin, no hair fitting in between.

The tiny stock room is loud with the impatient smack of them fucking, of Morgan’s depraved act, and the horror of it, _the sheer_ _sacrament_ makes all hairs on his body stand on end while Jared gulps moans into his palm, Morgan’s name, the Lord’s name.

Morgan fucks him so hard so fast he’s gonna be chafed tomorrow. Will curse himself and worry, worry, worry, because how irresponsible, how _vile_ , Father?

He has enough presence (and kindness) left to wrap one hand around where Jared’s hard and leaking for him, perpetually. (Thinks about him, about Jeff Morgan, he says, when he’s by himself in his bed at night and _you know what happens next, don’t you, Father?_ )

Only a few times is enough before they come undone together, crash like ocean and shoreline, and Morgan nearly loses himself with it.

Jared’s a squirmy bug, soon, buried under the heft that is his pastor. Jared, who’s beard-burnt between too-slim thighs and huffs and puffs into Morgan’s cheek, his ear.

Who inquires, leaking all over the poor table, “Think you can get it up again?” and Morgan love-groans.

~

Children like Jared are not meant to be.

Demons. Tested faith.

Humanity is a lie.

~

Jared’s eyes follow, and they curse.

Spread out on the expensive hotel bed, he’d deserve to be covered in petals. Silk and champagne but he’s swallowing until Morgan can touch the tippy-toed point of that nose with his pubes.

Looks up, like a dream. Tanned like he never wears clothes, and maybe that’s the truth and Morgan’s not the only soul being damned.

Not the only one combing his fingers through this hair, looking into those eyes and finding everything but God in them.

Jared climbs him, rides him. It’s never enough.

Heathen, whore. Abomination.

His voice breaks when he lets himself go like this. Bounces off the fancy wallpapered walls and into Morgan’s bone marrow, his very being, and he grinds up, because he needs, because he craves.

“God, yes, fuck, _please_ —”

Constant blasphemy. Morgan tired of correcting, of educating.

May He have mercy with a fool.


End file.
